


The After Effects of the Great Game

by Sherlock1110



Series: John's blog [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Forced Nudity, Handcuffs, Kneeling, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-06
Updated: 2015-11-06
Packaged: 2018-04-30 08:24:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5156900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sherlock1110/pseuds/Sherlock1110
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the prompt;</p><p>Sherlock and John, soaking wet, in nothing but their underwear and shock blankets, handcuffed in the back of a police riot van, with a fretful (parental?) Lestrade lecturing them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The After Effects of the Great Game

**Author's Note:**

> Beta read by sherlockian4evr
> 
> I fancied something different I. The style of writing, I hope you guys don't find it too offensive!
> 
> So for the first instalment, Sherlock posts John's blog for him

I watched as my best friend sat, handcuffed, opposite me, in nothing but his boxers. His head was low, lower than I had ever seen it and his long wet matted curls stuck to the back of his neck. The reason for Sherlock's head being so low: one Gregory Lestrade. 

I'm guessing this isn't making any sense. Let me start from the beginning. 

Sherlock had been a pain in the arse for days. It started with the pink phone from A Study in Pink, well one similar. It turned up when the block opposite 221 exploded a few days ago. Since then, he'd been on a mission, running around like he's on a wild goose chase. Of course, he had dragged me around for the ride too. I'll go into more detail in a separate entry. Some of those plots demand a lot more detail. 

Where were we? Ah, yes, Sherlock, obviously. 

Well, we had what Mrs. Hudson would call a 'domestic' which I think is bollocks. Sherlock and I don't have 'domestics'. He acts like a robot and I shout at him and then he realises, sometimes, he'd cocked up and occasionally even apologises. Occasionally. 

I was heading to Sarah's and suddenly I wasn't. I was walking towards the corner of Baker Street. I'd planned on getting a bus, I think, except I don't really remember much next. The next thing I do remember is waking up in a shower cubicle in a swimming pool I'd never been to in my entire life. 

There was some slight problem here. I had enough explosives strapped to me to take out the entire South East and there was a voice in my ear. It told me to put the coat on that was on the floor beside me. At first I thought I was going mad, but the voice agreed with the circumstances around me. It told me to stand up and walk out of the cubicle and then turn to my right. I was too dazed to not do as the voice said. I wandered out and to my right was Sherlock, wide eyed and clearly caught off guard. I would have laughed, but the voice was back, telling me to speak. I said what it wanted me to, the more I was coming around from the dizziness the more I began to get nervous, but I knew from experience that I needed to remain on top of the quivering in my voice. I needed to know what was going on and Sherlock was doing nothing to offer an explanation. I was doing fine, but then he moved towards me a look of utter disbelief on his face, not a look I see often. Not a look I'm going to treasure, not today at least. 

He appeared to be holding something - the memory stick I recalled. He'd said he'd given that to his brother already?

The look of disbelief didn't go away and then the voice was back. Slowly, I opened my coat to reveal what was beneath the jacket that was hiding the explosives. 

I spoke, but this time my voice did break up slightly, much to my shame. “What… would you like me… To make him say… next?”

Sherlock looked down at something on my chest then, but I froze. I couldn't think straight, all the bloody army training I had been through and it failed me when I needed it most. 

At last my flatmate spoke just two words, he said, “Stop it.”

And I had to speak again. Talk to Sherlock about the pool and where Carl died, you'll know who Carl is from my next entry, then the voice made me talk about, well… you don't need to know that. We were just after why Sherlock had no clothes on weren't we?

Well, behind me a door opened and I had to assume that someone entered as Sherlock's attention was across the room, but it soon flickered back to me, those grey-green eyes that I get lost in so often, so confused and at the moment sadly redundant for the madman. 

I knew who it is as soon as the new person spoke. It was Molly's boyfriend. We only met briefly, again that'll be covered soon, but he had a voice that just… stuck. Couldn't forget it. And if I couldn't, the consulting genius that stood in front of me, still wielding the memory stick, couldn't forget it either. 

And would you believe it, for the second time in a few days, Sherlock had my gun. I don't even remember where I'd left it, but apparently he did. Of course he did. 

This new madman behind me introduced himself. Jim Moriarty. The man that Sherlock had been trying to dig dirt on for months. With limited success. Even Mycroft had drawn a blank there. 

I watched Sherlock curiously. I've seen him wield guns before, always calm, cool and collected, but now it wavered slightly. His other hand came up in order to support it. I couldn't blame him. 

The next bit is rather dull. Jim went on talking to Sherlock and Sherlock kept on listening, pretending he cared when for some reason the only thing he seemed to be doing was keeping an eye on me. It had been rather disturbing. 

Then they followed on to do something I could only describe as flirting. I know, flirting with Sherlock Holmes. What was this lunatic thinking? I suppose you had to be there. 

But that was nothing, up until now I had been nervous, yes, but the next bit is embarrassing. 

Jim just left through the side door, apparently content to let us stand there in the darkened pool. Sherlock, the second he lost sight of the consulting criminal rushed to me and stripped me of the bomb covered jacket and flung it down the side of the pool. 

You're thinking that's pretty embarrassing aren't you? My asexual flat mate stripping my clothes off? I even told him so. He didn't seem bothered, though. He just thanked me. I had attempted to stop Jim, by the way. Foolish of me, I know, but at least it seemed to take him by surprise. Well, that's not the half of it. Jim came back. Just as jolly as he had been, except I could be almost jolly too now I wasn't covered in bits of bomb, but then I realised my stupidity. A sniper could do just as much damage to Sherlock or I as the bomb would. One click. 

Anyway, Jim began pacing towards us again and he did the strangest thing. He told me to take my shirt off. Of course I had protested, but more than one little red dot appeared on Sherlock and I felt compelled to do as I was told. He didn't stop there either, next was my shoes and my socks, then my trousers. He told me to fold it all up and put it in a neat pile. I fear Sherlock nearly paid the price for my hesitancy here, as I had snarled. Thinking back on it, I probably sounded like a rabid dog, but moved to comply when I heard the sound of rifles cocking echoing off the walls. 

“Kneel, Johnny Boy,” came the next command from the Irish Idiot. That's my new nickname for him, I've decided. 

Of course, once again I complied and, at this point, it was the first time I glanced at my friend. His eyes were wide with curiosity, his feelings clearly ruffled as his mask cracked. I only shared one glance with him and then looked away. 

Oh, yes. I'm in just my pants too forgot to mention that.

What happened next did surprise me. He told Sherlock to do the same. I felt Sherlock hesitate, the few meters he was from me, but they must have used similar tactics as, pretty quickly, Sherlock's shoes had been kicked off and, piece by piece, the rest of his clothing joined the pile. 

At this point, I was expecting the worst. Sherlock clearly no longer had my gun and as he knelt in front of me, I realised we were both screwed and had no power to resist, but the Irish Idiot just collected our clothes and left. Didn't touch anymore and didn't speak, just left. 

I slowly looked up at my friend. His eyes were glazed with concern, with what I assumed was for me. He must have seen a similar look in my eye, because he smiled slightly. We stayed knelt for a moment on the cold hard tiles until we were 100% sure that the Irish Idiot had left. 

I'm going to be honest with you. I have no idea how we ended up in the pool, but that was how Greg and his team found us about 10 minutes later. I assumed Sherlock called them earlier, because I didn't get a chance. 

Oh, I also forgot to mention I was soaking wet too. The only difference between me and Sherlock being that he was handcuffed, his wrists behind him and around the bar for unruly prisoners. I sat with a shock blanket wrapped around me. Sherlock had one too but it had ridden down his shoulders. 

“You complete an utter idiot, Sherlock! Why didn't you call us?”

“Hold on. He didn't?”

“No. It was anonymous. Told us the address and mentioned the 5 pips. This was apparently the last challenge.”

“Moriarty,” Sherlock snarled. 

“Shut up, Sherlock! I hadn't finished. I have half a mind to take you back to the station and keep you in overnight to sober up. You're clearly pissed, I mean you must be, to attempt something as insane as to enter a darkened swimming pool with missile plans which, according to your brother are more than top secret, and meet a man you knew to be responsible for at least 15 counts of murder!”

“Lestrade-” Sherlock attempted, but it seems our friend the DI was having none of it as he slammed his fist onto the cage door beside him. It rattled heavily and made me jump.

“John, what's your take on this?”

“What, apart from freezing my bits off? Sherlock wanted to play, and the Irish Idiot was more than happy to oblige.”

“I think your brother wants a word with you, Sherlock. I still can't believe how irresponsible you are! You're supposed to be intelligent, but you've got the common sense of an 8 year old!”

I watched as the berating continued, smiling smugly to myself. It was about time someone knocked Sherlock back a bit, he was going to get himself hurt and he clearly wouldn't listen to me, but I hadn't got away scot free, he had bollocked me for letting Sherlock out of my sight and for allowing him out of the house without a leash. 

I don't even know if I'm going to post this, rather embarrassing after all, but I figured I would put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard, at least, and see where it went.


End file.
